


Had To Be There

by Omorka



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart stops at a local pub and gets more excitement than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had To Be There

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for several episodes from Series One of New Who; takes place somewhere between "World War Three" and "Boomtown." I know the Brig appears in an episode of SJA, but I haven't seen it yet, so if this depiction contradicts anything from that episode, I apologize. Originally written for the second Story Lottery at LJ.

The evening was cold and damp, as evenings often were in November. The old man ducked into the pub more for the warmth than for a drink, although once inside, he decided one wouldn't hurt.

"Pint of cider, please." The bartender looked at him as if he were trying to remember his face from somewhere. Well, perhaps he was. He collected the cloudy amber liquid and made his way to a table between the front window and the dartboard, leaning his cane against the table.

He took a sip and fumbled in his canvas knapsack for a book. His hand encountered the stacks of papers he had yet to grade, instead. Semi-retirement was working out poorly, he mused - all the frustration of marking papers, still had to get up at the same time every morning except on weekends, but now the work wasn't enough to fill his free time, to let him forget what he was missing.

His eyes flicked to the window. Streetlights reflected muddily off of low clouds just losing the last glimmering light of sunset, orange and grey giving way to dark. No stars were visible at all.

No stars . . .

He sighed. It was hard to remember, now, the frustrations and the tedium of protecting the Earth from the dangers that lurked between constellations. Like any old man obsessed with his glory days, he only remembered the excitement, the moments of grand camaraderie, the exhilaration of making the Earth safe for humanity. He knew better, intellectually, and he understood that the work he did now for the students at the school was just as important, in its own way.

He had Doris, and he had other people who remembered. UNIT still rang him up from time to time with a question, although their current operations were fat and lethargic; no good came of letting upstart operations steal your thunder. He had a good, calm life now. Leave saving the world to younger men.

The young fellow sitting by the window stirred. The brown jacket he was wearing nearly matched his skin tone, and his hair was short. He looked anguished, and there were three empties sitting in front of him. Alistair wondered briefly what his private misery was.

A light flashed outside, followed immediately by a _whumph_. The old man was on his feet without thinking, snatching the cane before it tumbled to the floor. A bomb? No, that would have been louder. There was something vaguely familiar about the noise.

The young man beat him to the door. "Bloody bastard," he heard the boy growl, "what's he done this time?" He rushed into the chilly air, his breath a trail of steam. Alistair followed him, the cider and the marking forgotten.

A plastic thud echoed from an alleyway; a flickering light, strangely harsh and metallic, reflected from the dampness between bricks. The young man wheeled and faced the alley, scowling.

"Good day," rang out a cheerful voice. "Sorry about the noise; bit of a bother with this." Alistair pulled up alongside the young man just in time to see a heavyset fellow in a golfing outfit tap a large rubbish bin with the flat of his hand.

" 'Salright," answered the youngster, slowly. "I can give you a hand with that, if you like."

"No, no, I wouldn't bother you with it at all," answered the golfer, a bit too hastily. The scent of bad dentistry drifted down the alley, accompanied by a noise that suggested the recent consumption of beans on toast.

"No, really, I insist," the young man answered, glancing sidelong at Alistair. "Least I can do after interrupting you."

"And _I_ insist," continued the golfer, scowling, "that I can handle my garbage myself, thanks. Just . . . got away from me there, for a moment." A sneer flickered on his face and disappeared again.

The young man did some sort of complicated calculation in his head. The alley still reeked of tooth decay and something else. Ozone, perhaps? Alistair cleared his throat. "Not at all, sir. Why, this young man is offering to better his entire generation by offering assistance, and you're turning him down? He was raised well; you should show you were, too."

"I don't need a lecture from the likes of you, old man," the golfer growled. But the younger fellow was already at the bin. He put one hand on the side with the wheels. "Where d'ya want it?"

The golfer stared, farting again. Then he sighed. "Head of the alley'd be fine."

"Sure thing." The youngster tipped the bin backwards; something shifted inside it with a thud. He didn't seem surprised; he spun it around and tugged it forcefully down the alley to the street.

"That's fine, thanks," the golfer assured him hastily.

"Right, then," replied the young man, and he turned the bin again and promptly lost his grip. It didn't look a bit accidental. The canister fell to the ground and popped open; a plump human body stripped of its skin toppled halfway out as the lid slammed back down on it.

"Sorry," flinched the younger man to Alistair. "Run!"

"Not a bit of it," Alistair answered, but the young man was already taking off; the golfer roared, a distinctly non-human sound, and reached for his forehead, pushing back the golf cap to reveal -

A zipper?

Alistair caught up with the boy a block away, although running like that was making his hip ache. "What was that thing?"

"Serial killer, I'd imagine. Stupid of him to dispose of the body like that," panted the younger man.

"Don't give me that nonsense. You knew that was an alien." The young man's eyes widened. "What kind?"

"Raxacoricofallapatorian," gasped the other fellow. "Specifically, a Slitheen."

"New one on me," Alistair nodded as they made a corner. Something was thudding distantly behind them. "You've dealt with them before?"

"Remember the explosion on Downing Street? By the way, my name's Mickey," the other man added, dodging into the alley behind a small restaurant.

"Pleased to meet you; I'm Alistair." Mickey tried the back door; it was open, and they both ducked in. "By any chance, would you happen to be a friend of a fellow who calls himself the Doctor?"

"Wouldn't say a guy who calls me 'stupid ape' and runs off with my girl is a friend, exactly," Mickey answered bitterly. "But yeah, we've met."

"I see. He's an old friend and sometimes-colleague of mine, too." Alistair scanned the kitchen they were in. "What are we looking for?"

"Vinegar, or lemon juice in a pinch. Something acidic, and lots of it." Mickey gave him a lopsided grin. "Tip from your old friend; saved my life the last time I saw one of those things."

Alistair had a pantry open and was pawing through it when the door was blown from its hinges. A tall, bipedal alien with a bulging midsection and a face like a squashed infant squeezed through it. "Idiots," it growled, "I'll have to abandon that disguise and kill you both now. You can't believe how inconvenient this is."

"Oh, please," the Brig answered. "I've met a great number of aliens in my time, in a number of trying circumstances, but one thing proper aliens do _not_ do is whine."

The thing's green face wrinkled. "What would a mammal like you know about us?"

"That you shouldn't be in a chip shop," snarled Mickey, flinging two open bottles of malt vinegar at it. The green thing wheeled at him, roaring. The Brig reached into the pantry and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, swinging it at the creature. He struck it directly in the face; the frying pan rang like a cheaply-made bell. The stunned Slitheen stumbled, a fizzing noise coming from somewhere. Mickey dumped the contents of a third bottle of vinegar directly on its head from behind; the green monstrosity groaned, suddenly swelled like a balloon, and exploded in an eruption of green flesh and nauseating stench.

The two men stared at each other, long, gelatinous strings of goo hanging off their faces, their clothes, the wall, everything. Mickey's eyes fell to the frying pan in the Brig's hand, and he snickered. Suddenly they were both laughing, the adrenaline boiling off as they fled the ruined kitchen.

\---

Alistair retrieved his knapsack, ordered another cider, and gestured Mickey over to join him. "Not that's it's official any longer, but my thanks for saving the Earth again."

"No biggie." Mickey sighed into a fresh beer. "Getting used to it at this rate." He looked up. "Does he do this to everybody he meets, then?"

The Brig looked thoughtfully at the ceiling before answering. "Not everyone. But the ones he trusts enough to talk to? Yes, I'm afraid he does."

"Figures," Mickey snorted. "Takes my girlfriend to gallivant around the galaxy, and leaves me and her mum here to be the rear guard."

"I understand, believe it or not," the Brig answered. "I was the rear guard myself, for a couple of decades, in fact."

"Really? That can't have been fun." Mickey took a long swallow.

"Fun, no," the older man answered, "but it was certainly interesting. Has he told you much about those days?"

"Hasn't told me jack," Mickey shrugged.

The Brig smiled. "Well, just so you know, the planet hasn't always been his oyster. In fact, he was _stuck_ here once; technically, he was even my employee, although that was in name only."

"Oh, yeah?" Mickey was interested despite himself. "So did you work for Torchwood, or what?"

The Brig snorted. "Upstarts. No, I was the British commander of UNIT for a few years. And in the beginning," he continued, "I wasn't so very fond of the Doctor, myself. He does grow on you with time, though." He eyed his cider and tried to think of the story that would embarrass the Doctor the most. Not that the Time Lord ever really seemed embarrassed about anything. "In fact, I remember when . . . "

An hour later, the raucous laughter from their table had grown infectious; the entire pub was rollicking. Mickey and the Brig stumbled out the door, neither quite able to stand on their own as the cane did the work of propping them both up.

"C'mon home with me," gasped Alistair through his chortling. "Doris'll feed you a proper meal."

" 'Slong as it's not fish 'n' chips," Mickey answered, still giggling.


End file.
